


Kill Switch

by kassidy



Category: Friday the 13th (2009), Friday the 13th Series (Movies), My Bloody Valentine (2009)
Genre: Abduction, Crossover, Crossover Pairings, Kidnapping, M/M, Past Rape/Non-con
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-02
Updated: 2019-02-08
Packaged: 2019-08-14 13:56:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 18,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16493891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kassidy/pseuds/kassidy
Summary: Jason has Whitney, and this time Clay's going to find his sister and get rid of Jason for good. But first he's got to figure out how to kill someone who seemingly can't be killed.Enter Tom Hanniger.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [no_one_in_particular](https://archiveofourown.org/users/no_one_in_particular/gifts).



> Started by myself and no_one_in_particular once upon a time. Now I'm taking it back up and gifting whatever I come up with to my partner in crime (so...I'm dedicating part of what she's written...to her). I'm not sure when it will be finished--I need more time (don't we all) and less projects!

His name was Jason. Jason killed over and over, and the police did nothing, found nothing. He took Clay's sister and kept her in the basement like a chained dog for six weeks. And then Jason was dead—Clay and Whitney had thrown his body in the lake. They’d gotten away. They’d won.

Then Jason, a killer with more lives than a cat, had jumped from the water and grabbed Whitney. Clay went after him but Jason clubbed his ear and smashed him in the head. Clay heard a weird pop. His ears rang and everything flashed white with blue edges.

He didn’t remember anything after until he found himself lying on the shore of the lake. The sky was blue and the birds were singing off in the trees. He was alone. His feet were wet, the cold lake water lapping at his knees.

Clay stumbled back to Jason’s lair. Stupid. Jason could have taken him down without blinking. It didn’t matter because no one was there. Clay stayed all night, shivering and cold and half out of his mind, images and voices playing in his head. He saw his sister holding out the locket, a picture of someone inside—Jason’s mother? Heard her talking to Jason, that improbable tone in her voice, calm in the middle of utter insanity, soothing the savage beast. She’d saved them both. 

Once upon a time Clay had fled home, leaving Whitney all alone to take care of their mother. But by the time their mother died of cancer, Whitney hadn’t attended the funeral. She’d been missing for weeks by then, taken by Jason. It was too late to make up how Clay had let her down, but he'd tried. He'd found her, only to lose her to Jason again.

Whitney was still alive. He knew it. He had to find her. For good this time.

But Jason vanished off the surface of the earth. Clay couldn’t find him. He kept looking, and before long he found someone. Not Jason. One like him, a killing machine that never stopped and never died, even when everyone swore that Harry Warden had died with Tom Hanniger.

Not many people knew what Clay knew. True monsters are hard to kill.

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Tom was in the bathroom and he heard it: just a small sound, as if someone had brushed against something.

Something close. Too damned close, right in the hall outside the door.

The door banged into the wall, cheap white wood shivering, someone coming through fast. Tall, dark-haired, breathing hard. Carrying a pickaxe.

The axe swung in an arc, smashing into dry wall inches from Tom’s face. Tom jerked his head away, breathing powdery dust. 

“Looks familiar, right?” The guy snarled, the taut lines of his face pulling tighter, threatening to break into something unrecognizable. Inhuman. Tom remembered a pickaxe, remembered blood all over it, all over the walls. All over him. Harry kneeling in front of him with the respirator concealing him, blank alien face with flat black planes for eyes. Holding the axe ready for Tom. Waiting for him to open up. Open up or die.

Tom opened up. Harry _flooded_  through him, rushing through blood and cells and pores. Drowning him. Red red red. Taking over. For a long time Tom hadn't understood what was happening to him, not until after the asylum with its drugs and doctors and more drugs.

He’d known they’d find him again. He couldn’t get away. But Harry could. He’d done it before.

Harry lunged for the axe, twice as fast as Tom could ever move, grasped the handle above the other’s hand and yanked, dry wall crunching, dust puffing up into the air, both of them fighting for it. Harry threw himself forward and drove the axe at the guy’s face, but the axe tilted and the part of the handle sticking up above the blade smashed into his forehead instead. He fell back against the wall looking stunned, face going sickly white, eyes vague. Hefting the axe in his hand, Harry moved in for the kill.

The guy threw his body to the right and kicked out opposite with his feet, hitting Harry’s knee. His knee locked, pain bad enough that he saw black spots. The axe thumped into the wall instead.

“Tom.” The voice was low, just a name, but inside Harry, Tom heard. The guy sounded like he  _knew_ Tom. Was that possible?

Nobody had ever come for Tom at the asylum. Nobody visited the whole time he’d been there. Like he’d died. He knew then he was nothing, negated. Put away and forgotten. Then he’d gone back home and people remembered him. Some of them even welcomed him. At first it felt good, better than good, felt like a damn bursting, relief that left his legs weak and blood pounding through his body. They  _knew_  him.

But the town knew and remembered Harry, too. There was a price to pay for keeping him alive that way. It made Harry stronger.

They paid. Died. Harry fled. Tom was anonymous again—waking in a strange house, a strange place. He didn't know how he'd gotten there, but he adapted.

Then a stranger broke into Tom’s crappy rental and said his name. Looking for him. It couldn’t be anything good, but it almost didn’t matter. Tom heard him.

He shoved at Harry, and Harry moved. A black shadow flickered at the edges of Tom’s vision. He blinked and it was gone. Tom stood unmoving, shocked that Harry had left so easily.

“I’m Clay,” said the guy, blood running down his forehead and grinning in a way that might have once looked wholesome but wasn’t now, not by a long shot. He reared back and punched Tom in the face.

The back of Tom’s head hit the sink and everything went black.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

Tom slowly opened his eyes. He was face down, filthy and sore. Even before he was really awake he was listening for Harry in his head, but he was alone. That was new, the complete isolation. Tom could usually feel him near by, feel his amusement and utter sense of victory as Tom nursed his wounds and cleaned the dried blood from under his fingernails.

It was the manacles. Harry hated being restrained, never wanted to talk. Whoever managed to put Harry in these chains would ask questions—who are you, why did you do it, what kind of monster are you—as if the answers would make a difference or change events that had already occurred.

Harry would be back when he saw an opportunity to escape. Until then Tom would bear the questions, the judgment and the vengeance.

A light flickered somewhere. Tom rolled, chains scraping along the wall as he pressed his back into it. Show time.

Clay advanced down the passage, lamp held high. He stopped and looked down at Tom. Clay was fucking huge. From Tom’s crouched position on the floor he looked fifty feet tall. Young. Dirty. Unshaven. Tired. Dark, dark circles under his eyes, bruises on his face. Nice deep purple one in the center of his forehead, like he’d been hit by a truck. Walked like it too, all stiff and hurt.

Tom barely had a chance to look at him before Clay tossed a bottle of water in his direction and turned to walk out again. Tom was surprised. He wasn’t going to be questioned, wasn’t going to get the remorse beaten out of him.

“Wait!”

Clay hesitated, didn’t turn around but stopped walking.

“Please...” Tom whispered.

“I’m not letting you go.” Clay’s voice was rough, like he'd been down in the mines. All that coal dust down your throat every damn day.

“I’m not asking you to. If you’re going to kill me, just go ahead and do it. Don’t make me stay here.” He pulled at his restraints, leaning toward the figure in the doorway and ignoring the protesting throb of his knee.

Clay’s shoulders shook. It might have looked like laughter on someone else. “You want to die, huh? Like it’s that easy. I know how this works.” He looked back over his shoulder. “Don’t worry, though. I’ll find a way. I have time.”

He walked off, the light chasing his long form down the tunnel. Tom was alone in the dark.

 

He didn’t know how long it was before Clay came back. He was cuffed, a chain running between the cuffs with the chain attached to something high enough above that he couldn’t feel what it attached to. There was plenty of slack in the chain, so he could move around comfortably. He had bottled water and a bucket to piss in. It was so dark he couldn’t tell for sure where he was. There were other clues, but he ignored them. He couldn’t think about that if he wanted to keep it together. 

He’d been in coal mines all his life, breathing the dust and not noticing, feeling the ceilings press in low, the dark, the cold air, all of it familiar and almost unnoticed unless something in the mine was off. Then he’d noticed everything.

Ten years ago, he’d noticed nothing different when he’d gone into the mines with his friends. They’d partied there that night, thought it was great fun. They kept right on thinking that until they died. Harry killed them, then stood in front of him with his goddamned respirator and pick axe, and Tom felt the mine expand all around them, growing larger than life, breathing and living in collusion with Harry.

If Tom was in a mine now he couldn’t face it, not without surrendering to Harry. Not steeped in pitch dark and silence pressing down until he couldn’t breathe.

He heard footsteps. Light came down the tunnel, flickering, blinding after the darkness. He squinted, saw the stretched shadow Clay threw, saw light bouncing off dirt walls, the supports and rusted pipes of the mineshaft. It wasn’t a surprise, but he'd gotten good at fooling himself when he needed to.

Harry lunged, trying to take him over. Tom clamped down on a scream, walled it off and crushed it in order to think. 

They couldn’t be far down the mineshaft. Tom had felt an occasional stir of air and warmth in the dark. The closer to the surface the better—Harry became stronger deep in the mines. 

Clay put the lantern down on dirt and rocks, then threw a canvas bag on the ground beside it. He tossed Tom a grease-stained bag containing a burger and fries. He sat on the floor across the room, pulled out a hunting knife and started sharpening it on a whetstone. 

Tom watched him a moment. He smirked, shook his head and started in on his burger, which wasn’t bad even if it was cold. He wished he had a beer to wash it down.

Clay caught the smirk and scowled. “Something funny?”

Tom took his time finishing the last of the burger before answering. “Sorry. I’m intimidated by your big knife.” His voice sounded hoarse from not having spoken for so long, and he cleared his throat. “Really I am.” He licked his fingers and quirked a brow. “Can I finish my fries before we get to the torture?”

Clay’s face went still. “Yeah, you can finish. Then maybe I’ll cut ’em out of you along with whatever makes you psycho freaks tick.”

Tom snorted. “You know more than one psycho freak, Rambo? In my book that makes you a bigger freak than me.” He caught something in Clay’s face that made him look again.

Clay looked away.  “I know Jason.” His voice was low enough that Tom almost missed it.

“Jason?”

Clay’s turned, his face both expressionless and horrified, like something unspeakable was going on inside that he couldn’t make stop. Tom knew that look. He’d felt it on his own face before.

“He took my sister.”

“Took her where?”

“I killed him, but he came back.” Clay looked at Tom. “What makes you think I’m not going to just kill you?”

"He came back? How does that happen?" Tom raised a brow. “You always feed people you’re going to kill?”

Clay stared at him before dropping the knife and running his fingers through his hair. “This is wrong.” 

“Kidnapping and threats of bodily harm? Yeah, it’s wrong. Well, usually it is. Can’t say it is in this case.”

"So you're saying you deserve this? Or do you mean Harry?"

"You know about Harry."

“Harry Warden, right. You nearly killed him when you were younger. Now he's what, an accomplice?"

“How the hell do you—” Tom started, then softened his voice. “You first. Where’s your sister now, Clay?”

“You tell me.”

Tom stared at Clay. “I don’t even know her. How would I know?”

“No matter how many times people try and put you and Harry in hell where you belong, you just keep coming back, don’t you? You’re not fucking _natural_. You can’t be stopped, can you? Like Jason. Where did Jason take my sister, Tom? Does Harry know?”

Tom’s eyes widened. “I told you I don’t know your sister. I don’t know Jason. You’re fucking nuts. I mean I should have guessed but Jesus, my luck.” He scrubbed at his hair viciously, the chains at each wrist clanking. 

Clay laughed, short and angry, and crouched in front of Tom. He grabbed the chain to his wrist and yanked it. “I want Harry, you understand?”

“Harry’s part of me. Package deal.”

“He’s in there with you, huh? He’s the killer, not you. That right?” Clay gestured at Tom. “See, it doesn’t matter who you think does it. I’ve been following you for weeks. You leave piles of bloody meat everywhere you go. You leave trails of your own blood, too, but nothing fucking stops you. You’re not _human_.”

Tom crushed the paper bag and tossed it into an old cardboard box. He shrugged. “I’m not the one you want. I’m just the answering service.” He wiped his hands on his jeans.

“Sure.” Clay’s voice was scornful.  

“You know what, Clay, you can make up all the stories you like, okay? If it makes you feel better. If it makes you better than me.”

“You’re a _killer._ I saw the bodies, it was a fucking slaughterhouse. They think you’re Harry Warden, or his reincarnation, something, but I don’t give a shit, Tom, and you know why that is? Because you’re like Jason. That’s all I need to know. That, and how to kill you.” Clay’s voice was leaden. “I bet you don’t die easy, do you?”

“I don’t _know_!”

“People have tried before. What happened?”

“I’m still here. You figure it out.”

“Where’s Harry, Tom? He’s the one I need to talk to, right?”

“Trust me, you don’t really want him around.”

“Maybe I do.  Maybe that’s exactly who I want to talk to.” Clay picked up the knife and sheathed it. “I guess I’ll just have to draw him out. Appeal to his interests.” Clay crouched by the canvas bag.

“What the hell do you mean, appeal to his interests?” 

Clay pulled out a large box. “Want to know what’s in it?” He stood just out of Tom’s reach, set it on the floor and opened it. “It’s nothing bad. Relax. Let’s start with pictures.”

Black and white photographs landed in Tom’s lap, at his feet. All of them pictures of coal miners.

“Where are we? Where the hell did you bring me?” Tom looked around wildly. The walls were closing in.  He couldn’t shut them out anymore, couldn’t shut Clay up. 

“They don’t mine coal around here, but yeah, we’re in a mine. Did you know? Could you feel it, Tom? But I want to talk coal mines, so I brought some pictures from Absalom. It’s not nearly as well-known as Monongah—you know about Monongah, right? Not too far from there.” Clay sat down on the floor and kept poking around inside the box. “Of course, Monongah was the biggest coal mine disaster in US history. Absalom can’t quite compete with that, but they have two disasters to their credit.”

“Stop. Please, stop. Stop talking about this.” Tom threw the pictures away and covered his ears with his hands.

Clay ignored Tom. “There was a blast in 1946 that killed fifteen men, but it’s the accident in 1912 that’s really interesting. The tunnel caved in. Rescuers worked for two days removing all the slate, but it just wasn’t fast enough. Eighty men found dead when they finally got to them.”

Tom tried to focus, calm his breathing. “I don’t care what kind of mine it is. It’s not safe here, Clay, and you don’t even realize it, do you?” He nodded at the lantern. “That lamp of yours. Jesus, you know how gasses can build up? Blow you to hell. Or the damn passage could collapse. You go ahead and read up on mines and disasters all you want, but I was raised in them, and it’s been a long time since this place was anything _near_ safe.”

Clay reached into the box, eyes impassive, pulled something out and threw it at Tom’s feet. “Think some safety equipment might have saved them? Think they died fast?”

Tom stared down at the respirator in the dirt. Harry flexed his fingers toward the mask.  Tom chanted _stopstopstopstop_ inside his head, faster and faster until the words lost all meaning. His vision faded into red, losing detail. He dug his fingers into the dirt of the wall behind him.

“Harry wants the respirator, doesn’t he?” Clay asked. “It’s like getting dressed for him. Can’t leave home without it.”

Tom closed his eyes. “Please stop.”

“The reports say you always kill with the mask on. Is that right?”

Tom shook his head. “I _don’t_. I don’t know you, I didn’t hurt you or your sister.”

“Right. Okay. Harry, then. Why does he need the mask, Tom? Can he kill without it?”

“I don’t _know_.” Tom put his hands up to his head. “He tried to kill you without it. Didn’t work too well.”

Clay studied Tom. “That was him?”

“For a few minutes.”

“Let me see him.” He nudged the respirator over the dirt. Closer. “Here it is, Harry. Come and get it.”

“Fuck you.”

“I’d bet you see this thing in your dreams. It’s almost as much a part of you as it is him, right? Something you both depend on in the mines. It keeps him safe, kept him breathing when the collapse happened, right?”

Clay’s voice grew louder, reverberating in his head, louder still, booming and echoing until he felt like his head would split in two. He watched Clay’s eyes fill with blood, rolling over his cheeks and spreading outward, a red river, blank and merciless. Tom reached out blindly. “Clay, _no,_ you don't know what you're doing—”

Tom sank.

 


	4. Chapter 4

Clay thought Harry might break his own bones, jerking so hard against the chains. His face was mostly impassive, eyes intent on Clay and rarely looking away, though sometimes he bared his teeth, white flash of rage. He moved incredibly fast, his movements economical, purposeful, lunging to the edge of the area the chain allowed over and over.

He didn’t stop. He didn’t rest.

Clay stood inches out of Harry’s space. He talked, asking questions Harry never answered. _Why are you in there with him, Harry_ and _are there are others like you_ and _Jason, can you die—if I kill you do I kill Tom—how do I kill you, Harry—_

Harry stopped at that last one and grinned, soulless. Like he was _hungry_. He flung himself to the end of his tether, arms strained back in their sockets, and aimed a roundhouse kick at Clay’s head. Clay went down.

He woke up with a dry mouth and the taste of old blood. He coughed and spit right into a trench in the dirt beside his head. Harry must have dug it, trying to pull himself to Clay. He’d almost made it.   

Tom or Harry, whoever, lay curled up against the wall. He didn’t move when Clay got to his feet and staggered out of the mine.

 


	5. Chapter 5

Tom paced, called for Clay, called for help. No one came. He curled up tight against the wall, muscles like ropes, taut and straining. There were no cues to tell him how much time passed, no changes aside from an occasional shift in the air as a breeze made its way to him. The darkness was the same, the temperature nearly so.

He’d never wanted to be alone in the mines again. He'd thought that for the rest of his life he’d never get near another. Then his father had died. He hadn’t escaped.

Harry was amused. And something else behind it, a low disturbance tightening in Tom's gut, warning him. Harry dreamed of blood running from Clay’s empty eye sockets. He dreamed of Clay's screams, watching him die.

Tom sat up, blinking, straining into the darkness. At first it was just a tiny flicker, but then the light grew, wavering, Clay’s shadow across the ground as he approached.

“Tom.” Clay's voice was quiet.

Tom pictured Clay from Harry’s dream, red holes where his eyes should be, screaming in agony. He swallowed, feeling sick. His throat was sore.

“You stopped screaming.” Clay wouldn’t look at Tom, kept looking at the ground.

“Sooner or later you do, even when you’re trapped. Can’t keep screaming forever.”

Clay still wouldn’t look. Suddenly Tom wanted Clay to  _see_ him. He’d been in the dark too long. He wanted to prove he still existed, banish the low panic in his gut. 

“I bet your sister knows what it feels like. What do you think?” Tom said slowly, watching Clay.

Clay whipped his head up to look at him, eyes narrowing, and all Tom could think was  _thank God_  even through the rush of shame that heated his face. “But I’m still terrified. You’re better at torture than I thought. How long have you left me in here this time?” 

Clay looked away again. “You want me to believe you’re afraid? I saw that thing inside you.”

Tom grimaced and shut his eyes. “Yeah, but that’s not me. I’m afraid of Harry same as you. Difference is you don’t have to live with him.” He curled tighter into himself. “I’m afraid of everything.”

Clay came closer, rocks rolling beneath his boots as he slid down beside Tom. He leaned his head back against the wall. “Me too.”

They sat together in the dark.

 


	6. Chapter 6

Harry's dreams kept chasing Tom through the dark. Harry showed Tom what he'd do to Clay, and how he'd bring Tom back in the middle of it. Make him feel and see Clay’s guts wrapped around his bloody hands. 

Tom wondered if it would all finally end here. In a mine, same as it started. Part of him hoped it did.

He didn’t even notice Clay was back until a rope slipped around his neck. He started up, opening his eyes. “We having a lynching?” His voice was drowsy.

“We’re having a bath. You stink.” Clay pulled the rope tight. “Don't give me any trouble.” He tied the rope off behind Tom. “Or I could just choke you unconscious and hose you down, if you prefer.”

Just the threat of having his air cut off made Harry push at him from inside. Tom fought to keep his breathing normal. “Whatever you want, man.”  He leaned back to ease the rope’s pull against his throat, looked up to Clay and feigned unconcern. “We checking into a Howard Johnson or something?”

Clay pulled a pair of leg irons out of his knapsack and knelt in front of Tom. “Yeah, right.” He snapped a cuff around Tom’s ankle. He snapped the other cuff into place and gave the chain an experimental tug, then stood and reached over Tom to unlock the gang chain from a pipe above him.

“I can wait in the car while you check in,” Tom offered. “I won’t make a sound.”

Clay went to his knees again and padlocked the gang chain to the leg irons. “We’re not going anywhere, smartass. Just out to the lake to wash up.” He stood and untied the rope from behind Tom. “You should be able to walk, but don’t go too fast.”

Tom pushed up against the wall until he was standing. “You want to take this rope off?”  He raised a shoulder and tried to rub it against his neck where the rope circled. “It’s chafing.”

“You’ll live with it.” Clay wrapped the rope around his fist, picked up his lantern and stepped to the side. “You first.”

At first it was hard to walk, but Tom made his way through the mine with stuttering steps, his shadow preceding him, looming long and merging with the darkness ahead. Clay didn’t speak, didn’t tell him to go faster or slower, and Tom didn’t try to engage him. The rope stayed taut, pressing against his Adam’s apple until they arrived at the entrance. Tom squinted against the light of the dying sun flooding inside.

Clay extinguished the lantern and put it on the ground. He tugged the rope. “Go right. The water’s that way.”

Tom turned toward the lake, trying to pick his feet up so as not to stumble over the uneven ground. He breathed deeply, enjoying the first fresh air he’d had in a while. Everything smelled green. Alive, unlike in the mines where the air always smelled stale and dead. The sun shone on the lake, reflecting the trees.

When they arrived at the water’s edge, Tom could see a small fire had been started. There were a couple of buckets and some towels, some pots and pans and a small cooler. And there was a length of chain padlocked around a tree.

“Aren’t you afraid someone will see?”

Clay shrugged. “People don’t come out this way. Only people who don’t know better. Strangers.”

“Don’t know better?”

Clay shrugged again and then waved at Tom to approach the tree, tying the rope around the trunk and then releasing the gang chain from the leg irons, attaching it to the chain around the tree. He removed the cuffs from Tom’s ankles and untied the rope from the tree, removing the loop from Tom’s neck. Then he went over to the fire and put a pot of water on to boil.

“We’ll have hot water in a minute. Do you want something to drink?”

Tom stretched out the cramps caused by the chains and rubbed his aching knee. “That’s pretty generous of you. So’s a chance to wash up for that matter. What gives?” He cocked his head and looked at Clay. “This some new form of torture I’m not familiar with?”

Clay ducked his head and mumbled, “Maybe I’m just trying to keep you off balance.” He turned and opened the cooler. “You probably want to enjoy it while you can. Do you want a drink or not?”

“I’ll take a soda if you have one.” He twisted, working out the kinks in his back.

Clay watched him for a moment then tossed him a bottle of soda. “You’re in luck.”

Tom caught it awkwardly, opened it and drank. “Thanks. So how are we going to work this?”

Clay glanced at the pot steaming on the fire. He picked up one of the buckets and a couple of towels. He carried the items to Tom and handed them to him. “There’s soap in the towel. As soon as the water’s hot I’ll add it to what’s in the bucket. Let me know when you’re ready, and I’ll either throw some lake water on you or take you to water and dunk you.”

Tom looked at Clay. “I think I’ll go with the splash method if you don’t care. I’d rather not be held under.”

Clay shrugged. “Up to you. But I don’t have any intention of drowning you.” He opened a soda and took a pull from it. “Not just now anyway.” He looked pensive. “We might have to try that later, though. Maybe if I had weighted Jason down…”

“That’s very comforting.” Tom rolled his eyes and kicked off his shoes. “You gonna unlock these cuffs long enough for me to get this shirt off?”

Clay started from his reverie. He pulled his knife out of the sheath and grabbed the front of Tom’s T-shirt.

“Hey, wait! I was just asking!” Tom jerked back against the tree, eyes wide and startled.

Clay slit the front of his shirt and pulled. The old cotton tore like paper. Then he dropped his eyes, turned and walked back to the fire.

“Um, thanks. I guess.” Tom unbuttoned his jeans and pulled them off. “Any chance you’ve got an extra I can borrow?”

Clay didn’t turn around. “You know, for a prisoner, you’re pretty damn demanding.”

Tom smiled. “Always have been. I was the town’s favored son, after all.”

“Favored son, huh? What happened?” Clay took the now boiling water off the fire and carried it over to Tom. He poured it in the bucket.

“You seem to have done your research. You know what happened.”

“Do I? Why was the Crown Prince of Hanniger Mining working like a common grunt in the mines? Why didn’t you go to college, learn how to run the business?”

Tom unwrapped his soap and started lathering up with the smaller of the two towels. “My dad thought I should start to earn my way after high school. I was hoping for a football scholarship, but the only reason I was even on the team was because my name was Hanniger. “ Damn, it was good to wash off the dirt and the grime and the sweat. “Dad said I couldn’t go away to college until I had earned enough to pay my first year’s tuition. That meant working in the mine.”

Clay sat down on the ground and plucked at the grass at his feet. “And then the accident happened?”

Tom scrubbed at a streak of dirt on his arm. “Yeah. My fault. I was cocky and used to having people clean up after me. I wasn’t paying attention.”

“And after?” Clay’s voice was soft. “How did you end up in the hospital?”

Tom sighed. “ I couldn’t stay there. I just ran. Ended up in New York and had a flashback in a damn subway tunnel. The cops took me to the hospital.”

“And your dad never found you?”

“Oh, he found me. He just didn’t want me back. He told everyone back home he didn’t know where I was. Truth was that he paid them to keep me there. Had me legally committed. If you spread enough money around, you can make all your problems disappear.”

Clay smirked. “Right, ’cause you were picture of mental health.”

Tom glared at him. “I wasn’t like this. Not then. Maybe I could have been helped.” He dropped his head. “My father paid the staff at the hospital to drug me before the commitment hearing. They gave me amphetamines or something. I lost it and threw a damn chair at the judge.”

“How do you know he paid them?”

Tom shrugged. “The minute he died they cut me loose. Pretty sure the only reason I was really in there was because someone was getting paid.” He bent over the bucket and scooped soapy water over his hair. “Think I could get that rinse now?”

Clay started to get up, then hesitated. “Do you really think you could have been helped? That things could have been different?’

Tom wiped suds out of his eyes. “I don’t know. Maybe not. Maybe Harry was a part of me even then.”

Clay stood and grabbed the other bucket. He poured its contents over Tom then walked down to the water to fill it again and repeated the process.

“Thanks,” said Tom, running the dry towel over himself. “What are you staring at?” He stretched, playing it up a little. “Are you going to clean up now or would you rather keep looking at me like I’m dinner?"

Clay started and dropped the bucket. “Sorry.” He turned away. “You’re a good-looking guy for a psycho.”

Tom snorted. “Yeah. The orderlies used to call me ‘the pretty one.’ They had a thing for my mouth, you know?”

_Nothing worked right on the drugs. Not his mind. Not his hands. Not anything._

“ _C’mon, pretty boy. Be good now.”_

_Tom pushed. He slapped._

_Pain. Sharp and unexpected. A taste of blood on his tongue._ “ _Open up. You do it right and maybe we’ll let you go outside for a while.”_

Clay looked back at Tom. “They…abused you?”

Tom shrugged. “Not much they can’t make you do when you’re drugged up and everyone thinks you’re crazy.” He wrapped the towel around his waist. “It’s not that big a deal. They did it to everyone in there. Go clean up.”

Clay grabbed the bar of soap off Tom’s used towel. “I’m just going down to the lake for a minute.”

Tom sat down on the ground and leaned back against the tree. “Fine. I guess I’ll just wait here.”

Clay looked at Tom another moment, then picked up a towel and went down to the water. He quickly stripped and dove into the lake. Five minutes later he got out, quickly dried, the wrapped his towel around his waist the same as Tom had and walked back to the fire. He reached into the cooler and fished out sandwiches, handing a couple to Tom before he sat down and started to unwrap his own.

Tom unwrapped his sandwich and took a bite. He washed it down with a drink of his soda and said, “So what about you? You said he has your sister. What happened?”

Clay’s shoulders hunched. “You don’t need to know anything about me. Just eat your damn sandwich.”

“C’mon, who the hell else are you going to talk to? Tell me about your sister. Are you close?”

Clay sighed. “Yeah, we were close. My dad died when I was five. It was just my mom and us. Mom worked a lot. I should have taken care of Whitney, but the truth is that she took care of me. She was the responsible one. I just got in trouble.”

“And the guy thing? She was okay with that?”

Clay looked at Tom like he was expecting something, judgment maybe. “She was fine with it. When my mom found out she went ballistic. She didn’t care when I was making a fool out of myself over girls, but the guys just sent her over the edge. She called me sick. She’d just been diagnosed with cancer, but I left Whitney with the mess and hit the road.”

“How old were you?”

“Seventeen. And dumb as hell. Did a lot of shit I’m not too proud of.” He shot Tom a rueful look. “Plus there's a lot of ….” Clay stopped, thinking. His expression twisted. “....orderlies out in the world. You'd think, when you haven't showered or shaved in days, looking like you just climbed out of an alleyway dumpster, that you wouldn't look too appetizing.”

Tom shook his head at Clay. “Doesn't matter.”

“I was hitchhiking.”

Tom raised a brow at him. “Especially hitchhiking. You weren't naive at all.”

Clay grinned. “You think?” The grin faded. “Gas, grass, or ass, he said. A classic. Yeah, I guess I was pretty naive.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Like you said. Not a big deal.”

“Did you talk to Whitney at all after you left?”

“She tracked me down about six months before mom died. She said Mom didn’t have much time left and I needed to come home. She also told me she was dating this guy, Mike. I had a …thing with Mike before I left, and I acted like a jealous girlfriend. It turned into this bad fight.”

“What did your sister say?”

Clay smiled. “She was tough. Told me we weren’t kids anymore and I should grow up. She told me to be home in a week if I still wanted to be a part of the family.”

“Did you go?”

Clay dropped his head. “No, I didn’t. Maybe if I had, I could have taken some of the burden off her. Maybe she wouldn’t have gone camping that weekend just to get a break from watching mom die and this whole mess never would have happened.”

Tom shook his head. “It wasn’t your fault. You can’t think like that. Everything’s so fucking easy when you’re looking back at it, but you can’t live that way.”

Clay didn’t even acknowledge that he’d heard him. “I looked for her after she disappeared. Kept going back to that little town, handing out flyers, talking to people. The sheriff fucking hated me. Guess I don’t have to worry about running into him again anyway. Jason killed him too.”

“Why would you worry about running into him?”

Clay stared at him. “He pulled me over one evening and threatened to lock me up for vagrancy. Told me he wouldn’t if I’d get down on my knees.”

Tom started to reach out, but the chain stopped far short of Clay. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry that happened. All of it.” He sighed. “All these damn orderlies in the world.”

Clay did a double-take, starting to grin. “That's not fucking funny, man. Not in the least.”

“Yeah,” Tom said, smiling back. “Gotta laugh or cry, though, right?”

Clay stood up and walked over to his clothes. “You should get your pants and shoes back on. It’s getting late.”

Tom looked out at the lake. “Can’t we stay a little bit longer? Please.”

Clay zipped his jeans and threw the towel aside. “It’s not a good idea to be out here after dark.” 

Tom took it, dropped it into his lap. “Please, just a while longer. I won’t ask any more questions. We can just sit here. Just a few more minutes.”

Clay sighed. “Okay, fine. A few more minutes, then we have to go back.”

Tom leaned back, and Clay threw some more wood on the fire. They sat and listened to the water lap at the shore.


	7. Chapter 7

Clay came in next time carrying a blanket. He held it out to Tom. “Got a little cool last night.”

"Yeah, well, being shirtless didn't help." Tom pulled it around himself.

Clay handed over a deli sandwich and chips and a large soda. Tom watched him a moment, then sat the food carefully down beside him. “How long is this going to go on, Clay? You can’t keep me here forever. What is it you think you’re gonna do with me? Kill me, what?”

“Look, Tom. I need to see Harry.”

“Last time I woke up with bloody wrists and a dislocated shoulder. I would have thanked you for fixing it if I didn’t blame you for having it in the first place,” Tom said, and Clay frowned. Tom rolled his eyes. “I know you think he’s something like Jason, but man, that doesn’t make sense to me, it just doesn’t. I know you want your sister back—”

“Did you know when Harry come after me, Tom? Here in the mine? He’s a scary motherfucker. He’s you.”

“He’s not me. I don’t even know what the hell he does most the time!”

Clay hunkered down beside Tom. "I’m going after my sister, Tom. I intend to get her back. We put Jason’s head in a fucking _wood chipper_ and threw him in the lake last time. It’s crazy, but he came back. There’s something in him that just refuses to die. Sounds familiar, right?”

Tom stared at Clay, at the hair falling in Clay's eyes, the intent green gaze.

“Right. I need to see Harry again, Tom.”

“Can I tell you something? The day you broke into my place and came after me, Harry came out. He probably would have killed you, but…I stopped him.”

“You can control him?”

“I never have before, man, I don’t know what was different. Most the time when Harry’s present, I’m not. I don’t know what he’s done. I just…wake up, afterwards.  I remember you said my name, though, and I heard it even with Harry up front. It freaked me out. Nobody’s said my name for a long time—hell, I haven’t told my real name for a long time.”

“Will you let me talk to him?" Clay's voice was soft. "Can you let him out?”

“He’s not a dog," Tom said, swallowing. He wanted to close his eyes. Didn't want to face Clay. "He doesn’t come when I whistle.”

“Try, Tom. Please, just try. Let him out.”

Tom let out a long breath. “I don’t want to let him out. He needs to stay locked up. It seems like maybe I have the power to do that for the first time ever.” He looked up at Clay, trying not to plead. “Don’t ask me to give up control. He won’t help you. He’ll lie, if he’ll talk to you at all. He’ll do his best to get you killed if he can’t find a way to do it himself.”

Clay moved closer. “It’s worth the risk. Help me, Tom.”

Tom looked at Clay, felt his resolve crumble. “You need to restrain me. These cuffs won’t do it. He’ll be able to move too much.”

Clay pulled a roll of duct tape out of his pocket and quickly taped Tom’s ankles together, then straddled Tom’s legs and wrapped tape around him, pinning his arms to his sides. Finally he taped his wrists together, giving his hands a rough squeeze. “Thank you. Where do you go? When Harry’s in control, where will you be?”

Tom shook his head. “I don’t think I go anywhere. Just...in back. Sinking way down. Before, I would have said I don't exist when he's out, but maybe not. Maybe I'm still in there, somewhere.”

“It won’t be long. You’ll be back before you know it.”

“Don't let him get too close, Clay. Not even with all this. You understand?”

Clay nodded. Tom stared at him a moment, doubtful. Clay's eagerness thrummed off his body, almost an electric feel to it. Finally Tom closed his eyes and concentrated, searched for that presence hanging at the edge of his perception.

A red wave filled his mind and pulled him under.


	8. Chapter 8

Tom's eyes opened. Full of ice and razors.

Clay leaned away instinctively, realized how close they were together, too late. He hadn't expected the change to happen so quickly. “Harry?”

The only answer was a sneer.

“Talk to me, you son of a bitch.” Clay leaned forward, resting his weight on Harry’s wrists, thinking to at least keep Harry's movement restricted.  “Don’t make me get creative.”

Harry leaned to the side over the cup Tom had left there beside him. Closing his lips around the straw he drank deeply. Then he slowly sat back up and leaned back against the mine wall with a long, “ahhhhh.”

Clay let go of Harry’s wrists and grabbed his shoulders. “Talk!” He shook Harry, pushed him into the wall and leaned in close. “You know what I want from you. Tell me if Whitney’s alive. Tell me how to get her back.”

Harry smiled and opened his lips, a prelude to a word. His teeth snapped together. 

Clay jerked back just in time to avoid losing a chunk of his face. He slammed a forearm against Harry’s throat. “You want to be a dog? Bite like an animal? Maybe we’ll see how well you respond to correction.”

Harry’s nostrils flared. He started to bring his bound hands up, but Clay grabbed them, held them down and leaned harder against Harry.

“You always wear your respirator, Harry. Isn’t that right?” Clay felt his lips pulling back from his teeth. “Can’t stand the idea of not being able to breathe?”

Harry bucked under Clay, his head rolling against the wall. He was insanely strong, but Clay used his own fear and anger. Adrenaline was a wonderful thing. “You feel like talking yet?”

Harry gasped and coughed, glaring.

“How long do you think you can go without air, Harry? I bet you thought about it a lot when you were trapped in that tunnel.”

Harry’s face turned red. His lips worked, forming words with no sound.

Clay backed off a little. “What? What are you trying to say?”

Harry breathed raggedly, drawing in as much air as he could. He whispered, “You can’t get her back. You don’t have it in you to beat him.”

Clay's mouth dropped open. “She's alive, isn't she?" He drew back a little more. “Tell me how to beat him.”

Harry coughed and chuckled. “Can’t do it. It’s like the magician’s code. You don’t tell anyone how the tricks are done.”

Clay heard a high buzz in his ears, in his head. Rage, desperation. He pressed his forearm back into Harry’s throat, leaning into it. “How long were you trapped in Hanniger's mine? Any lanterns you had in there just ate up the oxygen, didn't they? You had to put them out," Clay whispered. "How'd it feel, there in the dark, Harry? Cold? Did you share body warmth with the others? No, I bet  you didn't. They wouldn't have let you close... you heard plenty of secrets during that time, didn't you? People need to communicate, touch, when you're busy dying." There was a layer of numbness between Clay and a different part of Clay, the part that spoke to Harry, did what needed doing. "Do you remember the oxygen getting thin? How it felt? Harder to draw into your lungs, right? There wasn't enough. And those other men there with you, breathing up what you needed to survive." Clay settled in closer to Harry. "Remember how your lungs felt so tight? Can you feel it? Try to breathe, Harry." Harry's face was purple. "Can't you do it?"

Harry's eyes grew wet, blinking frantically. Sweat popped out all over his face, above his lip. His chest struggled to rise. His eyes began to bulge.

Something inside Clay tore, ripped, some part of him--of who he thought he was, anyway.

 _Whitney. I have to, I have to do this--can't leave her with that fucking_ cannibal _\--_

"Tom?" Clay watched Harry's face, pulled his arm away from Harry's throat. He couldn't control his own breathing. His vision blurred. What the fuck was wrong with him?

Tom straightened, sucking in huge lungfuls of air. Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes.

"Tom?" Clay asked, suddenly frantic. He spread his palm over Tom's chest as if that would help him breathe.

Tom's color changed, purple to red to pink. He coughed. His eyelids were swollen, shiny. Tom reached up, covering Clay's hand with his own.

   
   
    
  
 


	9. Chapter 9

Clay had left, or fled. Nothing to do but think and sleep. Tom lay wrapped in his jacket and the blanket Clay had brought, his back against the wall of the mine, sleeping. Dreaming. Clay was still with him. Touching him. He liked it. Hands on his body, big and warm, moving slowly. It was different from when he was at the asylum.

Tom heard Clay coming back before he saw him and sat up, yawning. Clay strode down the mine shaft, lantern swinging in his hand, shadows stretching wildly over the walls. 

Tom stretched. “Hey." The word sounded low and rough from sleep. 

“I’ve wasted too much time," Clay said tightly. His body seemed to thrum—some kind of nervous energy. He didn’t look at Tom, setting the lamp down on the ground. “I’ll leave you plenty of food and water and move you closer to the entrance. I saw a supply room they cut out off to the side. There’s an old toilet in there. It’ll do till I get back.”

Tom’s mouth opened, and for a moment nothing came out of it. “What—what’re you doing? Are you leaving me here?” he managed.  
  
Clay still wouldn’t look at him. “I’ve got to go after Jason. I’ll get back here when I can.”

“When you can? You don’t know where he is or how to beat him—that's what this has all been about! What if you don’t find him?” Tom’s words rushed over each other.

“I’ll find him. I thought he’d left here for good, but he’s not gonna give his place up.”

“What do you mean his place? You’re not making any sense. Look at me, Clay!” 

Clay turned to face him. He looked as if he hadn't slept in a long time—red-eyed, gaze burning into Tom's. He couldn't stay still, shifting restlessly. “Will Harry let you leave Harmony behind for good, Tom?”

Tom glared at Clay. “Stop asking me things when you never answer me. You’re leaving me here to die.”

A muscle in Clay's jaw twitched. “Will Harry go back?”

“Dammit, Clay.  I don’t ever want to go back there. Okay?”

Clay’s lips stretched in a smile that sent a shiver down Tom's back. He hunkered down and put his mouth to Tom’s ear, rubbing a slow hand up and down Tom’s back. He radiated heat. “I didn’t ask what you wanted, Tom. Will Harry keep away from Harmony?”

Tom didn’t answer.

“Tom?”

“He always wants to go back,” Tom whispered. “Make everyone pay. Doesn’t matter. He’s not in control anymore. I won’t let him.”

Clay smiled again, a brief uplift of his mouth. 

“You don’t believe me.”

“I wish you were right. And I wish you could help me,” Clay said softly, as if he wanted Tom to understand.

“You look at me like that and fuck you, all I want to do is say whatever you need from me, but I don’t know what that is. I swear to God I don’t know. I’d do anything.”

Tom hesitated, laid a hand along Clay’s thigh, and Clay stared down at it. “Don’t leave me here, Clay. What are you doing, running away?”

“Running from what?” 

Tom stared at him. “If you don’t come back, I’m trapped here. I'll starve. I'll rot here in the dark like Harry did. Is that what you want to do to me?”

“I’m coming back. You won’t die here.”

Tom nodded, looking off into the darkness. “You’re right, but not for the reason you say. Harry’ll get us out.”

Clay’s eyes narrowed. “Maybe I _should_ kill you. Fuck, it’s what I meant to do from the moment I saw you and what you do to other people. Before you get back to Harmony and start all over again.” 

Tom stood up. “I keep hearing you say that shit, and I keep telling you to go ahead, give it a shot.” He spread his hands as far as the cuffs would let him and then jerked at them in frustration, yelling. “So what the fuck are you waiting for?” 

Clay straightened again, ran a hand through his hair and looked away. “I don’t know. I thought I might be able to understand Jason more. Maybe figure out a way to beat him. How the fuck do you kill something that always gets up no matter what you do to it? I acted like I had all the time in the world, like Whitney’s not being held against her will, grasping at straws rather than killing you in cold blood.”

“Maybe you just don’t want to kill me.”

“You think I care about you? Why in the hell would I, knowing what you really are?” 

“You’re nothing but amateur hour, Clay. You’re not in Jason’s league and you’re not in Harry’s. You have no idea what to do.” 

“I already know Jason’s weakness. It’s his mother." He gestured widely. "It’s this place. It’s his home, and it has been since he was a little boy. He let Whitney live because she reminds him of his mother.” 

“His place. This place? What the hell are you talking about? Where are we?”

“Directly beneath Jason Voorhees’ house is a bunch of mining tunnels. Zinc and ore. It’s where he hid for years. It’s where he took Whitney. We’re in the entryway of those mines, not far from his house. Voorhees Mining. He could have come back the whole time I left you here chained up and alone. Still think I care, Tom?” 

Tom locked eyes with Clay. “I don’t know," he said, uncertain. He stepped closer to Clay, their bodies touching. “Do you?”

“Stop, dammit,” Clay rasped, putting hands on Tom’s shoulders. Tom ignored him, pushing with his body until Clay was against the wall. “Whitney could be dead while we—I—”

“While we what? Can’t you even say it? You want to fuck the psycho freak, right?" Tom said, devoid of emotion. He slid a hand up Clay’s neck, pushed fingers into his hair. “He’d wrap his fingers in your hair, just like this, and fuck you so hard you’d be screaming, and then he’d slit your throat, Clay. If he could. But I won’t let him.” 

Clay jerked his head away from Tom, stepping out from the wall of the mine and turning to face him. “You don’t have the fucking control.  He’s always been too strong, hasn’t he?” 

Tom's eyes shuttered. “If you believe that, you’re suicidal to let me touch you.” 

“I guess ‘takes one to know one’ doesn’t cover it?”

Tom sighed impatiently. “Look, I think I can handle him if you’d just _stop_ pushing me, trying to make him to show up. Things are different.”

Clay stared at him incredulously. “What’s different? Me, do I make things different? I don’t think so.” He stepped closer again, leaning in. “Harry,” Clay said, long and drawn out, a feather-breath whisper. “Come out, come out.”

Tom’s head jerked back against the wall. “No.”

“Harry hates my guts. Doesn’t he?” Clay lowered his voice, lips almost touching Tom’s ear. “I’ve kept him in the dark for days. Makes him want to kill someone, doesn’t it? He knows he’s going to die in here and he needs to kill everyone before they breathe up all his air, needs to kill me because I won’t let him out—”

“Does it make you feel good, doing this to me? Harry hasn’t helped you yet, what the fuck makes you think he can or will? But you just keep coming back." Tom laughed. 

“It doesn’t matter how it makes me feel, Tom, because there’s something that’s part of you—or all of you and you’re hiding it, I haven’t figured that out yet—that kills people and never hesitates, never stops. That’s what I need to know. How to make it stop.”

Tom grabbed Clay’s shirt, clutching it. “Clay, you’re not like this, don’t do this to me.” His voice broke. 

The color left Clay’s face. “You don’t know me.” His eyes met Tom's, dark and wide, brows drawn up like something hurt him inside, like maybe Tom had tried to hurt him and not the other way around. “I’m going to leave you here. There’s no way to get out. Nobody knows you’re here. Nobody knows how to get to Harry to save him. He’s in too deep. They’re not gonna get here in time, Harry, and all the killing you've done won't save you. The air’s a finite thing down here. When it runs out you’ll die, just like everyone else did. Can’t even get away from their bodies, can you?” Tom tried to cover his ears but Clay grabbed the gang chain and pulled, held them down. “It’ll be them and you, all alone in the dark. It’ll swallow you up. You’re trapped, Harry. Are your lungs tighter yet? Searching for air, starving for it?”

“Stop, just stop, fuck you, Clay, please please stop." Tom stared at Clay desperately. “Listen, listen, okay? He wants to kill you, he dreams about killing you, about the pickax, and I have to watch him do that to you in my dreams. Please don’t make me. Harry's crawling all over me just like the goddamned orderlies, pushing at me, trying to come through. He sees blood all over, did you know that, red over everything,” Tom’s voice broke again. He pushed himself back into the wall away from Clay. 

Clay put a hand to Tom’s face, swept his thumb over the line of his jaw. His mouth trembled. “He’s here listening, isn’t he? Can he die, Tom?” he whispered. 

“Only one way to know. Try it,” Tom breathed. “Yeah, Harry’s in here—and you, you’ve got me just like Harry does—I can’t fucking move or speak or see or piss without you knowing. You’re so goddamned busy trying to save Whitney from Jason, but you’re acting just like him, making me stay here, chained up. You think she wants a brother like that?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Clay said, but it was hard to hear. Like he'd faded or something. 

“Or what? Got your big knife handy? Sure you do, but you can’t do a goddamned thing with it. You and your fucking threats.” 

Clay turned dark, bottomless eyes on Tom again, transfixed, features oddly quiet. “Let’s see if I can. Then maybe I can kill Jason.” He pulled the knife from the sheath at his waist and stepped even closer into Tom’s space, raising the knife flat-sided against his throat. “How do I make you die? How do I make it so you don’t come back? Maybe I need to cut your head off, cut you up into little pieces? Burn you up until there’s nothing left but ash?”

The air stirred minutely and the lamp flared, harsh shadows leaping everywhere. Clay’s cheekbones were razor sharp, black holes where his eyes should be. Clay might be as crazy as Tom was now. But Clay didn't sound this far gone until he'd met Tom.

Tom closed his eyes and remembered Clay dying, night after night, in his dreams. Harry wanted Clay dead so badly, but Tom just _wanted_ , and it hurt, wanting it now with every part of himself. 

He didn’t know how much Clay might have given him, if anything, or how long, if only Tom had gotten through to him. But Clay had _seen_ him, touched him, and it was more than Tom had had in years. Only now Clay was losing everything he’d ever been, here in this mine shaft, pieces sloughing off with every sneering word he forced out.

Destroying himself. 

It made Tom afraid, made him want to fight in a way nothing had for a long time. Until Harry welled up all around him, like blood filling a cut. Tom pushed down with everything he had, his strength holding but stretched thin like an old rubber band. “I don’t want him to hurt you. I don’t want him to hurt anyone.” 

Clay nodded, his eyes all pupil, fixed, frozen, not really there. He turned the blade. The sharp edge dug into Tom’s throat. Tom gagged, felt the blade cut him. He reached out, put a hand on Clay’s chest. Stroked down, palm wide open, feeling the soft material, the swell of muscle beneath. He remembered what it felt like, Clay knowing who he was and clutching his chest anyway. 

Clay’s eyes grew wider, wilder, chest hitching beneath Tom’s hand. The knife trembled.

Sharp, choking pain, pushing deeper. He didn’t think his own blood would feel so warm, spilling over his skin. It hurt, god—

 


	10. Chapter 10

Harry shuddered and rolled his eyes up, looking at Clay. “You know he wants you.” He grinned, teeth shining dry and dull like old bone in the flickering light, fierce, everything else pared away. “He wants you to love him. Nobody ever loves him. They all forget him.” His voice was deeper than Tom’s, an edge to it that hurt. He laughed like it tore his throat apart, the knife pushing deeper into skin. 

Clay cursed. “Fuck you, fuck you. Get out. Get out of him.”

Harry cocked his head. Blood pulsed out of the neck wound. He put a finger to it, touched his tongue to his finger. “You called  _me_ , Clay. I’m going to kill you, and I’ll let him watch. Imagine what that’ll do to him.”

Clay threw the knife, the blade landing on the other side of the cave. “Leave him alone, get out!” he screamed.

Harry stayed where he was, a death’s head grinning at him. Waiting.

“Listen to me, Tom, I know you can hear me. You said you have control. Show me. Tom!” 

The hellish glint in Harry’s eyes, the sharpness and madness, began to slip. For a split second he looked surprised, then unsettled. The expression sat strangely with his flat gaze.   

“Tom, please, please. I’m sorry,” Clay whispered.

Harry lunged for him, wrapped both arms around his neck, grabbing the slack in the chain. Clay grunted, stumbling back. 

The hate in Tom’s face changed again, something like pain twisting over it, then melting from his features and leaving only Tom, his whole face bewildered, hurting. He pulled his arms back and looked at them, confused.

Clay leaned close, grabbing Tom’s arm. The chain attached to the pipe above jangled, swayed. “Tom?”

 


	11. Chapter 11

Tom opened his mouth to speak, coughing instead. His eyes widened. God, his neck hurt.

Clay’s features wrenched. He wiped away the blood with his sleeve and inspected the cut, then pushed gently against it to stem the flow of blood. “Fuck. Godammit.” Clay’s eyes closed.

Tom moved his hand up, curled it around the back of Clay’s neck, so warm against his fingers. “It’s okay. Clay? It’s not bad.” He hoped to fuck it was true.

Clay barked out a rough sound. Maybe it was a laugh, maybe not. Tears squeezed from the corners of his eyes. “God, I can’t believe you. Only a fucking mental patient would say that.”

The skin at Tom's throat throbbed and stung. He tried to ignore it, rubbing a hand over Clay’s shaking shoulders, pulling him closer. “Crazy people are smart, don’t you know that? They see what’s inside."

“You did it. You got rid of him.” Clay opened his eyes and met Tom's.

Tom nodded slowly. “I heard you say my name.” The corners of his mouth lifted, uncertain. “Jesus. I _heard_ you.”

“Has that ever happened before?”

“Only with you.”

Clay watched Tom, silence stretching out. His eyes dropped, looking at the wound on Tom’s throat. “At least it’s not bleeding anymore.” He swallowed hard, couldn’t seem to tear his gaze away from it. Couldn’t raise his eyes again.

Tom pulled him closer. “Stop, okay? It doesn’t hurt much. You’ll take care of it, right?”

He couldn’t tell if the strangled sound that came out of Clay’s mouth was a sob or a laugh. Clay swiped at his eyes. “Yeah. I will. Gotta clean it up and keep it clean—don’t think a bandage will stay put there for long.”

“It’ll be okay,” Tom repeated. He swallowed and tried to hide the involuntary wince.

Clay looked away. “Whitney’s dead. Isn’t she?”

It was so out of left field, and Clay sounded so damned lost that Tom didn’t know how to respond, didn't know how to make any of this better for either of them. “Don’t ask me that.” Almost before he knew he’d done it, he reached up, brushing dry lips over Clay’s.

Clay jerked, startled, then stilled against him.

“I can’t know that, I’d tell you if I could,” he whispered against Clay’s mouth.

“Tom, for God’s sake, I hurt you." Clay’s voice was ragged. Their breath intermingled. "You can't want this."

Tom felt the air heavy and hot between them, like a solid barrier against everything he wanted. He willed himself to break through, pushing closer, barely touching, barely breathing, asking.

Clay froze against him for what seemed like forever until suddenly his mouth lowered and covered Tom’s, body pushing into his.

Tom grunted, stumbled into the dirt and rock wall behind, sharp points digging into his back and skull. His hands moved down either side of Clay’s waist, chain stretched across Clay's stomach. Clay mouthed at his lower lip, demanding entry, and Tom opened up and pushed back, their tongues tangling, greedy, kissing hard and deep.

Clay tasted like mint, like coffee behind it, and Tom couldn’t get enough, opened wider, tried to get the taste of Clay deep enough inside him to absorb it and make it his so that Clay couldn’t remember who was inside of Tom and pull away, take it all back and leave in disgust. It felt like something huge, bigger than it should be, like a last chance—like breathing, like living, while remembering with every part of himself what it was like to live with each day a little dimmer than the one before.

Like all the long months alone after Harmony, that last time.

He made a sound, plea and demand, sliding his hands up over Clay’s neck and twisting, tugging fingers into soft hair, pulling him down closer. He thrust his hands in under Clay’s shirt, hard calluses scraping over the swells of muscle. He was so fucking huge.

Clay gasped when the pads of Tom’s fingers moved slowly over the sensitive skin of his nipples, stiffening beneath his touch.

"God,” Tom breathed, pressing the line of his body as tightly as he could to Clay’s, feeling all he could before it was snatched away.

Clay broke off, gasping, hitched breaths puffing into the side of Tom’s neck. “I’m sorry, Tom, so sorry, I almost killed you, I don’t want to be like those others who hurt you—fuck—” Clay’s face closed down, miserable, guilty. “Didn’t you get enough of this at the sanitarium? I—I don’t think I can—” He tried to pull back.

“You’re not, you’re not—please—I swear—” Tom swore loudly, grabbed Clay’s jaw and dragged his mouth back down, kissing him hard.

Clay tore away and shook his head, chest heaving, trying to put space between them again.

“You’re not,” Tom repeated fiercely. He spread his arms wide, the chain between taut, and grabbed Clay’s arms, yanking him forward. Clay staggered and fell into Tom. The chain from the ceiling hung between them. Tom shoved it aside violently and kissed Clay again, slipped his tongue into his mouth, exploring, long and slow and deep.

Clay stilled against him, body shaking.

“Clay,” Tom said, touching Clay’s face. “You don’t have to stop. I don’t want you to. I need you not to.” He flushed when Clay looked at him, sure that every damn thing he felt showed wide open on his face, but he didn’t look away.

“I just…” Clay trailed off and laughed shortly, self-mocking. “Fuck. I’m keeping you prisoner and I want to make sure you’re okay with this. Goddamn.” His tone dropped as he spoke. His hair hung over his forehead and hid his face.

Tom ducked his head, pressing his forehead to Clay’s, pushing up a little. “Hey. Why I’m here, what you’re doing, none of it matters right now. Can’t you just—can’t you fucking see that and take whatever this is—” He swore again, then touched his mouth to Clay’s, soft and careful, felt warm puffs of air as Clay breathed against his face. Tom kissed him and Clay let him, slow and aching.

“Want you. No matter what else happens after.” Tom pushed harder, mouth covering Clay’s, punishing, desperate pressure.

Clay groaned and raised his head, finally pushing back, devouring his mouth.

Tom thrust his hips out helplessly in reaction, the rigid line of Clay’s cock under his jeans grinding against him, felt him stiffen through denim. Clay’s hand came around the back of Tom’s neck, his fingers a bruising circle, both of them gasping against each other, mouths sliding hungrily together. Tom couldn’t get enough, kissing him until their lips were hot and swollen, twisting together, arousal flaring sharp and electric over his body, humming through his muscles and rising through his skin. He put his hand over Clay’s, threaded their fingers together so that they both touched Clay’s skin, felt the fine tremor in his muscles as they stroked over the flat belly and lower, tracing the line of hair below his navel until it disappeared beneath low-slung jeans. Tom dragged his fingers from Clay’s and pushed beneath the belt line and over hot, damp skin, then further, over the head of Clay’s cock, smooth as silk. Tom closed his eyes when Clay jerked beneath his touch, felt crazy with the heat and want trapped inside his own skin. He had to have more, move more, touch more. Touch all of him.

“Please,” Tom said hoarsely. He flushed at the sound of his own voice and slipped his other hand around the nape of Clay’s neck, shifting, changing positions with him, pushing Clay’s back to the tunnel wall. He couldn’t wait any more, grabbed the button on Clay’s jeans and pulled it through the hole, slid the zipper down. He thrust a hand inside, groaning when he touched Clay again, hearing his deep intake of breath. Tom's fingers wrapped around the flared, swollen head of Clay’s cock, circled and slid below the ridge, feeling the push and pulse of thick veins beneath his fingers.

“Oh fuck oh fuck,” he breathed against Clay’s mouth. Clay’s mouth curved upward.

He fell to his knees and looked up. The air between them was a living thing, thick, charged. Clay’s body was carved in lines of red and yellow lamplight. His faded jeans wrinkled around his thighs, belt buckle curved and hanging. His cock swelled, flushed and full, bobbing against his stomach. He looked down at Tom, lips parted, eyes half-lidded.

A roiling wave of heat spread over Tom’s body and face. He reached out, rubbed a thumb over the jut of hipbone as he stared up at Clay.

“Tom,” Clay urged, low and raw.

Tom grasped Clay’s cock, breathed in the musky smell of him before lowering his mouth and licking over the smooth pink head, lapping at the slick of precome pooled at the slit.

Clay groaned, knees buckling, leaning against the wall so he wouldn't fall.

Tom licked his lips and followed him, opened wider and sucked him in, tongue rubbing over the veins pulsating beneath his touch just as his fingers had. Clay was so fucking hard, hot, felt so good in his mouth.

“God,” Clay breathed, thrusting his hips as Tom kept it up, fucking Tom’s mouth in slow, measured strokes.

Tom took it all, greedy, watching the long line of Clay’s body, the fine tremble in it and the way he threw his head back, swaying a little. He grabbed the base of Clay’s cock and sucked hard, swallowing him as far down as he could take him, then put both hands on Clay’s narrow hips, the chain between his hands hanging in a curve. He shoved Clay against the wall, forcing him to stop moving.

Clay’s eyes opened, trying to focus, and Tom pulled off him completely.

“What—Tom?” Clay groaned in protest. “You want me to—god, is there something—what do you want me to do?” He reached out, ran a thumb over Tom’s lower lip when Tom just looked at him, something in his eyes Clay couldn’t read. “Motherfuck.” Clay knocked the back of his head into the mine wall and groaned. “Just tell me what you want. Fuck, Tom.”

Tom couldn’t take his eyes off Clay’s mouth. “That’s what I want.”

“What?”

“Fuck. I want to fuck.”

Clay picked his head up off the wall and looked down at him, silent. He bent and kissed him, fingers rubbing the curve of Tom’s jaw. He dropped to his knees in front of him, seeking out Tom’s lips again, tongue sliding against Tom’s. His arms were iron bands, crushing them together.

“Dammit,” Tom panted when he could pull away, “take your fucking clothes off unless you really are trying to kill me.”

The corner of Clay’s mouth rose.

Tom gestured at Clay’s shirt. “Fuck. God, take it off, I want to see—” He sounded desperate and he knew it. He closed his mouth.

Clay nodded, all eyes, swallowed up by pupil like before, open and hungry. He pulled his shirt off over his head, hair flying all over. He was muscled, long and sleek, arms bunching and tightening as he dropped his hands to the waist of his jeans. He hesitated.

“Don’t think about any of it, Clay. Okay?” Tom touched a hand to Clay’s waist, wrapped a hand around his side and squeezed gently. “You worry too fucking much. You’re driving me crazy. I want to see you naked so bad. Want to feel you over me, in me,” he breathed, feeling a tremor beneath Clay’s skin. He pulled at Clay’s jeans, trying to take them off.

“Wait.” Clay pulled back, and raised a brow, grinning a little when Tom grabbed at him. “C’mere.” He stood up, held out a hand to Tom and pulled him up. He bent to the knapsack slung on the ground, unzipped a side pocket and pulled something out. He offered it wordlessly, extending his palm out. He flushed.

Tom stared down at the lube in Clay’s hand. “You fucker, we’re going to talk about this. Later. Too busy being grateful right now,” he grumbled. “Come here. Hurry.”

Clay came there, hands stripping Tom of his clothes, then pulled the rest of his own off and walked Tom up against the rocky wall. “You’re even better looking without clothes, you know that?” Clay murmured, tongue tracing behind the lobe of Tom’s ear, down his throat, biting at his shoulder. Tom grunted and Clay bit him again, then licked the bruised skin.

“Dammit,” Tom swore, flicked the lid up on the lube and squirted a messy puddle of it in his hand. Some of it dripped onto the chains. He thrust his cock against Clay’s and Clay spread his legs to lower himself and line them up better, shoving them close against the tunnel wall. Tom wrapped a hand around them both at the base. then up with a firm grip, slicking the lube over them both. Clay’s head was buried in his shoulder. but he heard and felt Clay’s quick breath, felt his body stiffen against his. Clay arched, pushing into Tom’s touch, slow and tight, heated skin sliding in tandem, up over the heads and rubbing.

Clay’s mouth moved to Tom’s, brushing over his lips. “I want inside you so bad."

Tom’s head fell back against the wall and Clay’s mouth followed, urgent, kissing him breathless. Tom moaned into his mouth as Clay pulled the tube from Tom’s hand and squirted it into his palm, some of it dripping down his arm, then touched Tom’s chest with the back of his hand, rubbing knuckles over a nipple. Lube spilled from his palm and dribbled over Tom’s stomach. Clay ran his finger through it, circling and going lower, then palmed Tom’s cock, sliding quickly up and down, pushing so that the swollen head strained from his fist. Tom spread his legs further, gasping.

Clay smiled, slow and knowing. His fingers circled behind Tom’s balls, then up, brushing against the tight, puckered opening.

Tom’s upper body stiffened and he arched his hips outward, writhing.

Clay kissed him, caught his lower lip in his teeth and then slid one finger barely inside past the tight ring of muscle.

“Fuck,” Tom groaned, unable to help himself, and shoved down against the pressure of Clay’s finger until Clay slid inside, slick and slow. “More,” Tom gasped, “please, more, c’mon, do it—”

“Slow down,” Clay murmured, but his voice hitched.

“Fuck you,” Tom said, “The last thing I want is to slow down.”

Clay’s face tightened. “Okay,” Clay said roughly. “You don’t want to wait?” He grabbed Tom’s shoulder and pushed him around to face the wall. “We won’t.”

Tom didn’t care, fuck, didn’t care about anything but getting Clay inside him. He spread his legs, Clay’s cock nudging against his ass, felt Clay’s fingers spread him more and then pressure, the blunt head of Clay’s cock pushing slow and steady through the ring of muscle, burning, forcing him open. He could barely breathe, tried to spread wider, felt his legs trembling and weak. Clay’s hand was on his dick, jacking him, letting the skin slide slow beneath his hand, holding at the top and then plunging down tight, slamming him against the wall at the same time as he slammed up inside him, pushing all the way in until his balls pressed against Tom’s ass. Tom’s face scraped against rough stone and his fingers clutched at dirt and rock, digging in and holding his lower body off the wall.

“This it?” Clay panted. “What you want?”

When Tom didn’t answer he shifted his hips and pulled back, agonizingly slow.

“You bastard,” Tom gasped.

“Yeah?” Clay murmured against his shoulder.

“Move. Move, dammit!”

Clay grabbed Tom by the neck, hauled him back and thrust his tongue down Tom’s throat. Tom opened wide and sucked him in, kissing back brutally, trying to suck in air when he could. His head was buzzing, his body overloaded with sensation as Clay’s body slammed into him. Tom struggled, pushed back hard against him, asked for more. It burned, split him wide open, and he welcomed it, it fucking drove him out of his mind, wanted more and then Clay hit him just right and he bellowed something wordless, couldn’t stop it. He felt Clay’s mouth, hard curve of lips against the back of his neck.

“More, you got more, don’t you, c’mon, fuck me—” Tom grated out, goading him.

Clay chuffed out a breath and laughed a little against the back of his neck. He moved his hands around Tom’s hips and held him hard, slowed down instead of speeding up.

Tom panted hot against his arm, braced against the wall. He tried to push back, force Clay deeper, but Clay held him, sinking in slow and deliberate, dragging slowly out. “You—you fucking—God—tease,” Tom gasped into his arm.

“I’m not.” Something in Clay’s voice, intense and almost desperate, made Tom turn, look at his face. Clay’s eyes were half-lidded, sweat gleaming on his skin. His lips were swollen and full, and he ducked his head and dragged them over Tom’s stubble at his jaw line, touched a tongue to him and licked. His voice was soft. “Just want to make you feel good. You feel good, Tom?” He drove himself deep inside Tom, punching harder at the last moment, and Tom felt an electric burst, jolting him into the wall as Clay hit his prostate again.

“Oh—fuck—gonna—” Tom gasped, and Clay moved a hand off his hip and grabbed his cock again and pulled, hot and fast, jerking hard. Tom shoved his hips out and yelled, thrusting into Clay’s hand, his body a rigid line, digging his fingers into dirt, pulsing long and hard, coming all over the wall.

Clay plastered himself onto Tom's back and fucked into him, running his hands over his stomach, up his chest, breath chuffing hot against Tom's skin. Tom closed his eyes, feeling the jerk and pulse of Clay's cock inside him, listening to Clay moan as he came. 


	12. Chapter 12

“The air’s  _always_  damp in mines. You’d think I’d get used to it, but no.” Tom lay on his side on a blanket, Clay stretched out beside him. 

Clay reached out and moved the lantern closer to them, then braced his head on his hand and looked at him. “You always complain like this after you’ve been laid?”

“Maybe I’m just weirded out by your carrying lube in your trusty backpack, there.”

Tom raised a hand and hefted it, palm flat and open, then looked at Clay. “Let’s see…on the one hand, kill him—” He weighed the other hand, considering. “—or fuck him.” He shook his head and looked at Clay sadly. “You’re unbelievable.”

Clay made a face but couldn’t hide his sudden flush.

Tom snorted a laugh. He’d almost forgotten about the throat wound, the pain of it suborned behind everything else, but laughing at the consternation on Clay’s face made the damn thing burn like hell. He tried not to let it show on his face.

“I didn’t see you complaining a few minutes ago,” Clay muttered. He shrugged, flushing harder, looking off over Tom’s shoulder. “It’s not like I planned it.” He smiled unwillingly. “So sue me. I’m prepared.”

“Just like any self respecting bisexual Boy Scout should be,” Tom said dryly, patting his hand, and Clay laughed out loud, dimples flashing.

Tom laughed back, then grimaced and didn’t manage to hide it this time as the throat wound pulled again.

Clay’s smile vanished. He stood and went to the knapsack, pulled out some alcohol and swabs, poured alcohol over them and then squatted next to Tom. “It’s gonna sting,” he warned.

Tom hissed in a breath when he first touched him with the swab, but then held himself still and silent.

“As if it’ll make a difference…I guess I already apologized for this, right?” Clay asked, refusing to look at Tom’s face again, busying himself with the knife wound. It pinked at the alcohol but looked clean and not unduly swollen.

“Yes. Now shut up about it.”

“Can’t. I just had sex with the same guy who maybe wants to kill me, who I tried to kill and yeah, you’re right, I’m unbelievable. As in insanely unbelievable. Jesus.”

Tom watched Clay as he talked. He looked about five years old, the giant idiot, wide-eyed and worried. “Well, if you put it like that.” Clay’s look turned bewildered and Tom couldn’t help it, he had to laugh again, which still hurt.

Clay’s brows lowered, frowning. “What the hell’s the matter with you? This is serious.”

“It’s screwed in the head all right.” Tom wiped his eyes. “But you’re not fucking Harry, you’re fucking me, so shut the hell up, will you? And I know it’s serious. The chains tell me that, the mine. Captivity, all that.” Tom raised his arms, rattling the gang chain.

Clay ran a hand through his hair, looking miserable.

Tom grabbed his arm. “I’m sorry, I—Clay. Let me go with you after Jason.” Tom paused, tried to rein himself in. “I could help you. You asked me to. Just let me come.”

Clay’s expression was neutral in the yellow glow of the lamplight. “I know you want to think you have some control over him—”

“You forced him out in the open and then you helped me push him back. You’ve been betting your life on the idea that I’m not completely  _out_ of control,” Tom interrupted. “That or you’re crazy. Which yeah, we covered.” Tom tried a smirk but Clay only looked at him. He rolled onto his back. “I can stop Harry when it comes to you. You helped prove it. And I’ll tell you something, Clay. You go out there without me and that bastard you’re hunting kills you, nobody will be safe until I find him. I swear to God I’ll tear him apart.”

“That you or Harry talking?”

Tom turned his head, held his eyes. “Whichever's needed.”

“Harry’s not my friend, Tom. He hates me. He’s a killer, just like Jason.”

“I’ll kill myself and Harry both before I let him out on you again.”

“If it comes down to it, how do you know you can hurt Harry? I swore Jason was dead and still he came after us.”

“So you’re saying what, I can’t die? That’s bullshit.”

“Jason didn’t die and neither did Harry, even when the whole town thought he was dead.”

“It was an empty grave. They were mistaken.”

”Yeah, he was gone. With you. In you.”

Tom looked away. Wanted to throw up.

“I brought you here thinking if I could figure you out then maybe, just maybe, I’d know how to get to Jason, but I tell you, Tom—if I knew what the hell to do with you now, you wouldn’t be here either.”

“I’m not Jason.”

“No. But Harry’s the nearest thing I have to him. For once in my fucking life, I need to do something for Whitney. I need to save her. No more delays, no more excuses.”

“Clay. I’m not tied to Jason. You want me to tell you stuff about him, like we’re connected or something. It’s crazy. I don’t even know what Harry’s doing, for the most part. You get that?”

“So you’re  _not_  in control of him.”

“Sometimes I…feel him more now. More aware or something. Feel him moving around in back of my brain.”

“You think your shrinks ever thought there was a real separate being in there with you? I  _do_. At least now I do. And it’s like Jason, at least the same kind of thing that  animates Jason, some crazy force. It’s evil and it wants to live no matter what. If you get control of it somehow, good. Because I’ll tell you now, I can’t let you go back out there and hurt other people anymore.”

“So what…God,” Tom said, dropping his forehead into the palm of his hand. “You gonna kill me, or just keep me locked up forever?”

Clay’s eyes stared right through him, nearly black in the lamplight, his features chiseled out of stone.

“Clay, please,” Tom breathed. “Let me help. I told you—when it comes to you, Harry  _knows._ ” He felt helpless, not knowing what else to say. Didn’t want Clay to turn away from him.  

“Knows what?” Clay’s voice rose. “Jesus.” 

“About what I’d do if he comes after you. About how he’d—we’d never walk away from it. But you have to accept he doesn’t know anything about your sister or Jason. He wouldn’t care about them if he did.”

“He’s the same animal as Jason. Just a different body. Look, I know—I  _know_ there’s something different going on with you. There’s two of you in there, man, and as far I’ve seen, Jason’s just…Jason. A single entity. But you can’t tell me Harry doesn’t know anything.” Clay eyes were wide, pleading. Tom would never have thought such a towering—well,  _behemoth_  of a guy could look so young, so vulnerable.

And he couldn’t give him what he so badly needed. His fingers itched to touch him but he held himself back. “Doesn’t know what, Clay?”

“Where he is. What Jason wants from my sister.”

“What the hell are you  _talking_  about?” Tom yelled. “They’re not fucking attached, Clay, they’re not  _psychically_  attuned or some crazy shit like that. What happened to you—what did Jason do to you that you’re so screwed in the head?”

Clay laughed, but the look on his face was anything but amused. “You’re asking me why I’m screwed in the head?”

“What did he do, Clay? Tell me.”

“He fucking slaughtered everyone around me, brought them down no matter what, and then he kept on going. He’s a machine and they were meat. Harry’s like that, isn’t he? Just wants to survive. Everything and everyone else is an obstacle. How do we kill him, Tom? Can we do it and save you? He doesn’t have so much control over you since you met me, isn’t that what you said? How did that happen, Tom?”

“I don’t  _know_.” Tom stared up at the ceiling. “Tell me something. What was it like?”

“What?”

“Being the one to make it out. Because if I’m right, it doesn’t feel much different than how I feel. I open my eyes and there’s bodies all around, bodies of people I knew, that used to talk and laugh and fuck and piss and breathe and they’re just gone. Stiff and sightless, holes in their bodies, blood all over…it’s hard to imagine they ever lived. Meat.” Tom’s voice shook. He moved closer to Clay. “Tell me.”

“I didn’t just wake up to it. I saw them die, one by one, and I thought it’d never stop.”

“But you’re still here. Why?”

“What?”

“Why aren’t you dead?”

“I kept moving, kept fighting. Got the hell out of his way, I don’t know. Got lucky. He would have got me but for Whitney. You should have seen her. She had a locket, something around her neck. It must have been his, because she held it out and said things to him. It’s okay. You can stop. He kept staring at her like he was mesmerized—that’s when we got him.”

“What happened?”

“Got a chain wrapped around his neck. There was a woodchipper. It pulled him in.”

“Damn.”

“Yeah. And then my sis took his damn machete and finished him off. Told him, ‘say hi to mommy in hell’ as a sendoff.”

Tom was silent a moment. Then he whistled. “She sounds hot.”

Clay laughed. “I guess.” He was silent.

“What?”

“Something to make you think I’m crazier than you already do.”

“Good. Makes me feel at home,” Tom said.

Clay cocked his head at him, studying him, unsmiling. ““I watched him get shredded by that chipper, and he… _stared_  at me from out of that fucking mask he wore. I got this weird-ass feeling, sort of …outside myself. The noise of the chipper, the closeness and darkness all pushed at me, like…trying to get inside me. And I heard him, he was trying to get at me. His thoughts. Trying to get out of a trap, confused. Almost mindless. Instinct. Except for still thinking he had to kill us.”

“Like—was he talking to you?”

“No. I don’t know. I was reading him. He wanted me to and I couldn’t pull back, and I watched him die. Well, I thought he died. It felt like he wanted to take the whole damn world with him. He hated us. We wouldn’t leave him alone. Didn’t understand.”

Tom stroked Clay’s hair, felt something akin to pity, to horror. “You can’t…how would you know what he was thinking?”

“I don’t know. It was like…sinking with him, like he tried to take me with him. Make me die with him. I remember stuff he thought about Whitney. Betrayal... rage. And someone else he was thinking about. At first I didn’t know who she was. His mother died at the camp, though. It was her. I need to know more about them. There’s something there that’ll help me, I know it, but nobody wants to talk. I tried to research the whole Jason thing—the camp, everything that happened—there’s not much there. It’s like the town is determined to bury it. There was an old woman out by the lake—she knew about him. She said ‘he wants to be left alone’ and ‘strangers don’t know where to walk.’ I gotta go back, get her to talk to me this time.” He shook his head. “Weird. I felt like I was sinking or something, listening to all that coming out of him and thinking of his mother. She bled and bled. And he tried to figure out how to kill us until the very end.”

“You really think he tried to, what, take you with him?  _How_?”

“I know how it sounds. Supremely fucked up, huh. Imagining things. But I don’t believe that. I felt it. And after he was gone, I had to work at it to get back out.”

“Out of where?”

“The dark. From where he was going.”

Tom threaded fingers in his hair, turned his face and kissed him, long and slow and gentle. “Don’t want you going anywhere.”

“No?” Clay breathed, his mouth moving just as gentle on Tom’s. “What do you want?”

“Take me with you. Don’t leave me here not knowing what happened to you. I don’t want to die here in this mine waiting for you to come back.”

Clay kissed him again, slow and aching, so much feeling in it that Tom shivered. Clay pulled back and looked at him a long moment. Then he stood up.

“I can’t. If you can’t tell me anything that’ll help me, well…I’ve still got to go. This is my sister’s  _life_. I can’t risk it and I can’t wait any longer. I’ll be back for you. I promise.”

“Yeah? What if he kills you, Clay, what happens to me?”

“You won’t die here. I won’t do that to you, okay? Trust me.”

“You just don’t fucking get it. I can’t—something like what’s in  _me_  is out there—could rip you apart and you’re gonna make me sit here and do nothing?”

“Then tell me what I need to know to beat him. Give me something.”

“I’d do it, I’d tell you if I could. God, I’d do anything, haven’t you figured that out yet?”

“This thing—you and me,” Clay waved his hand back and forth between them, “there’s no point in thinking about what happens next, you know.”

Tom stood and took Clay’s face in his hands. His lips covered Clays, coaxing, soft and slow and wet, sliding his tongue over Clay’s. “You sure?” he whispered against his lips. Clay’s hand wrapped around the back of his neck, fingers rubbing over the short hairs. He kissed him back.

Tom ran a hand down his arm and wrapped his fingers around Clay’s. Clay stepped back, face flushed, but Tom held on as long as he could. Then he listened to Clay’s footsteps retreat, watched long after his slipping shadow followed him out of the passageway.

 

 


	13. Chapter 13

He was dreaming.

The motorcycle was freedom. No more favors for rides. No more begging change for the bus. Freedom, unless a fucking cop pulled you over.

“Son, you have to let us do our job. You’re interfering with an ongoing investigation.”

Clay gripped the handlebars tighter. “You don’t know her. You don’t even believe she’s really missing.”

“I don’t have to be a nice guy here. I can lock you up for vagrancy tonight if I want.”

“You lock up every camper and tourist that comes through here?”

A hand descended onto his shoulder. “Campers and tourists are good for the town. You’re not. I don’t want to take you in, but you’re not giving me a lot of choice here, son.”

Clay flinched away from the touch. “I’m not your son.”

The cop grabbed his face, forced Clay to look at him. “No. No, you’re not. You’re a trouble-making little shit. Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t lock you up.”

Clay sighed. “You’ll let me keep looking?” The words were slurred and wrong-sounding. The sheriff was still squeezing his face.

He let go, began unbuckling his belt. “That depends. You need to convince me.” He tossed his belt and holster onto the hood of his car. “How convincing can you be?”

Clay dropped the kickstand and climbed off the bike, dropping to his knees in front of the cop. “Let’s just get this over with.”

The sheriff leaned back against his car. “Go ahead. Looks like you know what you’re doing.”

Clay woke up. _At least he's dead now._ He washed his face and brushed his teeth until they bled, then went outside. He threw a leg over the seat of his motorcycle and started it.

There’d been a storm come through earlier. The air was soggy in his lungs, wanting to stick, and the wind was heavy, clinging to his body and smelling of leaf mold and wet greenery. His motorcycle rolled over the mud and gravel of the roads around the lake, the rumble of the motor familiar, relaxing. He thought about Tom back in the dark mine and knew he had to figure out what to do with him. Trouble was, he didn’t have the slightest idea  _what_.

Three months ago he was a drifter who never looked back. Now his mother was gone, his sister was held captive or killed by a freak who couldn’t die, and Clay’s single claim to something approaching attachment, besides his sister, was for someone just as deadly as the thing that held her. It was fucking crazy. He’d captured a monster and the monster had set him spinning, turned everything upside down. Out of control.

He’d had sex with a  _killer._

No. Clay had read the truth of who Tom was in his face, saw it in the open-mouthed kisses, the closed eyes when he offered himself up, tension and want written all over him, fighting so hard to hide it. As if Tom thought he’d never be seen again by anybody. He’d seen the hope there, too, saw Tom try to lock it down tight behind the shadows in his face. 

He’d been with Tom, not a killer.

And Tom deserved much more than Clay had to give. But Tom wasn’t alone in there, and it drove Clay crazy, wondering if Harry could feel any of what Tom had felt with him, if he were present for any of it, if he’d felt Clay with Tom. If they all just felt like layers against him, holding him down. 

It damn near melted his brain, trying to figure out what it all meant. If being with Tom, touching him, who was so alone, meant he’d betrayed Whitney.

Clay’s heartbeat thumped in his ears, thrummed and shook in his wrists and legs.

_Just focus._

_Find Whitney._

He had a gun, a knife, an aerosol can and lighter in his backpack. He thought he might be just as crazy as any of the monsters.

 


	14. Chapter 14

The house was just as it had been the last time—junk everywhere hugged up to the outer walls, picnic table stacked up with odds and ends, appliance parts. He saw a rusted bicycle sticking nose-first from the high grass. The boat was still parked in the same spot it had been, which made Clay wonder who else lived there—surely the old woman didn’t go fishing on her own in a boat that size.

He parked his motorcycle, slung his backpack off on the ground and approached the wooden screen door. The inner door stood open just like last time, the refrigerator humming on the other side of the room. The door rattled in its frame when he rapped on it, the dog immediately barking in an explosive chain of sound, but at least this time it came from another room. Someone must have shut a door between himself and the dog because the barks didn't slow but became muted. The old lady stepped out into the kitchen, settling her glasses on her ears. She frowned when she saw him and turned away, probably to go get the dog.

“Wait!” he called. “I was here before, remember? My sister was missing. I was really hoping you could help me.”

She turned reluctantly, her face stiff, closed-off. “I was expecting someone else.”

“I’m sorry to bother you, ma’am, but my sister’s still alive. I saw her. Please, I need to ask you some questions.”

Outside, someone pulled up beside Clay’s motorcycle. A police car. Two officers got out, the tallest one stretching and yawning. Clay clutched the white wood of the door frame, pushing back outright panic. She couldn't have called the cops, she hadn’t had time. His stomach sank anyway.

He’d been so persistent after Whitney disappeared. The cops wouldn't talk to him, except for Bracke. Of course, he’d had more on his mind than talking. He couldn’t afford trouble now, not if he wanted to go after Jason. He just had to keep his big mouth shut, no matter how they harassed him.

The screen door screeched on its spring as the old lady swung it open. “Adam. Trask. Somebody’s settin’ traps around here again. This morning they caught themselves a grandson—boy was stuck in a deer trap for an hour. Ain’t you gonna talk to those Jarralson boys? They’re the ones what done it.” 

Clay had talked to the younger officer before—Officer Lund, the one who stretched as he got out of the car. He smiled but his eyes were on Clay. “I figure you’ve got it right, Mary. We’ll go by there next, take care of it. Who’ve you got here? Clay, haven’t had enough of us yet?” He smiled wider. “I do believe we’ve had enough of you.” 

“What makes you think I’d leave when my sister’s still here?”  Clay said.  _Three sentences in and you’ve lost your shit,_ he thought, disgusted with his own lack of self-control. But Lund had been a champion prick after Whitney vanished. The anger and helplessness felt like something locked inside his chest, and he couldn't let go of it.

“I told you before, your sister is dead.” Mary’s mouth was tense, a down-turned bow.

“She was alive last time you said that. She still is.” 

“Office Bracke isn’t, thanks to you and your friends. And like he told you many a time, those kids are long gone from this town." Officer Lund's lips thinned, his blocky face tense. A strand of his fine, thin hair lifted with the slight breeze.

“Do you remember Jenna? Or are there just too many people who've died around here to remember them all? She tried to help me, and Jason killed her. He killed Officer Bracke, too, and you know it. I don't understand how you can have a killer in your town and it doesn't seem to matter to you.”

“Son, you need to get one thing in under your hat and live with it: Jason’s dead. He’s been dead for years,” Trask said. He was older than Lund, in his forties.

“You don’t believe that. Why do you keep protecting him? Is it because you’re afraid? He needs to be _exterminated_.”

Lund smiled again, sharp and unpleasant. “You’ve lost your mind.”

Clay turned slowly and looked at Mary. “Do you believe Jason’s dead, Mary? Is that why you have the dog with you all the time? Not as if you need guarding, right—or a warning system?”

“We don’t need outsiders around here. They’re the ones that go where they shouldn’t. Got their minds on drugs and partying. They die for it.”

“They die for it, right. Why in hell is it right that innocent people die?”

“You be smart and shut your mouth, Clay,” Lund warned.

Mary’s face went gray, gray as her hair, and the words came out jerky. “He was born right here in this town in sin and shame, and here he’ll stay. He just wants to be left alone. Those who interfere don't live to regret it.”

" _Who?_ Say his name,” Clay snapped. No one else spoke. He took a deep breath. “Look, I think you can help me find my sister. Please.”

“I told you. She’s dead.” Mary’s face was implacable. “No one ever survives.”

“You’re wrong,” Clay whispered.

Mary’s eyes narrowed. “He comes after you, you die.”

Trask sighed. “Mary, Jason died at the camp when he was a boy. Whatever’s happened since then has nothing to do with him.” He took off his cap and wiped his forehead. “These kids keep coming up here—kids like Clay and his sister. They get themselves into trouble and then the families want someone to blame. That’s all.”

Lund nodded. “Then somebody tells the Jason story again. The families don’t know what to think, but most of them figure it out—it’s just a local tale grown into some kind of urban legend.  All except Clay here—he thinks we have ourselves some kind of a… a what, Clay? A killer, a spirit who rose up from the lake he drowned in to kill everyone who comes too close?” Lund laughed and shook his head. “Jason died. He was just a kid. It was a tragedy.”

Clay threw caution to the wind, couldn’t seem to stop himself. “You’re from here, you’re not that stupid, are you? Maybe it’s just easier to blame the kids, right? Like you blame me for Bracke.”

Lund grabbed Clay’s jacket and bunched it in his fist, pushed his face close to Clay's. “You’re damned right I do. Greg Bracke lived here all his life. He had a wife and a boy. I see them every once in a while—Cassie’s lost twenty pounds and gained twenty years. Her boy wanders around like a ghost, hardly ever talks anymore. They lost a husband and a father, a man who’d still be alive if you’d have accepted that your sister is gone. You’re like a fucking bad penny that keeps turning up, you know that?”

“You’re scared, aren’t you? Scared of him. You’re supposed to protect people!”

“You saying I don’t do my job, Clay?” Lund bunched Clay’s shirt tighter in his fist.

“What’ve you done to stop Jason?” Clay’s voice was low, challenging. He stared down at Lund, jaw clenching.

Lund released Clay’s shirt, pulled his arm back and punched him in the face.

Clay staggered back into the door, wooden frame rattling, then straightened up and wiped his mouth deliberately. “How many people have died because you’re afraid to do anything about it?”

Lund hit him again, harder. Clay’s body half-turned with the blow. He clutched at the door to keep from falling.

“Let’s say we humor you, Clay," Trask said. “Say we got ourselves our very own hometown killer right here at the lake. Someone who supposedly died a long time ago, a murderer who kills stupid little shits that go camping in the woods and stumble into his territory.” Trask edged up the step, pushing Lund out of the way, leaning his body into Clay’s. “You already put his head in a wood chipper, isn’t that what you told us? Lucky for you there was no body or your ass might be rotting in jail as we speak—but even after that, according to you, we’re still not rid of him. So why don’t you tell us just what’s capable of  _exterminating_ him?”

Clay pulled himself upright and rubbed his jaw. “I don’t know yet, but I’m going to find out.”

Lund laughed, dry and hard. “Are you going to get rid of our supposed killer, Clay?”

“Somebody’s gotta try. It’s a hell of a lot better than standing around with a thumb up your ass while people keep disappearing.”

“You’re a big damn hero, that right?” Trask said. His voice shook with anger.

Clay met his eyes. “I’m going to get my sister back."

“There’s a little problem with that.” Trask’s lips parted over his teeth in a thin line. “You won’t be staying here in town with us, so unless you can kill him from a distance you’re not doing shit, boy. You understand?”

“You can’t make me leave. I haven’t done anything wrong.”

“That what you think?” said Lund. Lund grabbed one of Clay's arms and Trask the other, dragging him down from Mary’s porch. Clay tried to pull his arms away, struggling, and this time Trask punched him in the face. Blood gushed from Clay’s nose, running over his lip.

Clay looked back at Mary, standing in the doorway. “Tell them to stop. Please. I just want him to stop hurting people.”

She looked away, then back at him reluctantly. For the first time, he noticed her head shake minutely, an involuntary tremor. Her eyes held his, a mix of fear and belligerence in them.   

She turned away and shut the door. 

Lund and Trask dragged him between them, heading for the lake.

Clay saw where they were going, his heart kick-starting, understanding this had turned into something serious, maybe deadly. He kicked out, hitting Lund’s knee. Lund dropped like a felled tree. Clay punched out at Trask, fist glancing off Trask's chin. He hit Clay in the stomach, then drove his knee into Clay's groin. Clay doubled in on himself. Lund climbed off the ground, cursing, he and Trask grabbing Clay between them again. They pushed him, stumbling, down the trail to the lake.

“Fucking giant,” Lund gasped, then kicked the back of Clay’s knee in a fit of anger. Clay fell face forward on the ground, his cheek hitting hard on a rock jutting from the dirt path. More blood ran down his face.

 “That was bright,” Trask said. “Just who the hell do you think has to get him up again?”

They both reached for him. Only halfway off the ground, Clay tried going for Trask—despite his being older, he was the quicker of the two—but Lund brought a heavy fist down on the back of Clay’s neck. Clay went down again. Felt like he couldn’t move, though he knew he had to. Everything hurt.

Birds called in the distance. He listened to Trask and Lund curse, breathing heavily. Clay pushed himself up with both hands, arms trembling, his vision narrowing, going black, trying to hold on. They caught him up, a hand under each arm. They dragged him through the dirt, kept walking as they approached the waterline. They waded into the lake, water sloshing noisily. It was cool, felt good on Clay’s cuts and bruises, his throbbing balls, though that was the last thing he worried about.

The water reached mid-thigh on Lund and Trask before they stopped. Lund pushed him under first.

Clay shouted, body pulling in a breath before he could stop himself, all shocked reaction. The water tasted fishy, almost brackish. It rushed into his windpipe. He coughed, sharp hard bark, trying to expel the water. Bubbles erupted around his face. He fought against the involuntary impulse to take another breath. The seconds ticked away. He fought but couldn't escape their grip. A minute passed, more, an eternity. The water rushed in, a wall, cool and foreign. 

A hand dug into his hair and pulled him up out of the water. It would have hurt like hell except for the fact that he was busy coughing his lungs up.

Trask bent down close, breath warm and rank on Clay's face. “This is our home, you understand? Things have changed since Bracke died. We’re not willing to lose any more townsfolk over a bunch of strangers that come in here to take advantage of what we got, putting their noses up in the air and dismissing us all as a bunch of ignorant inbreds.”

Clay hacked and coughed. His lungs burned, felt water-logged, heavy and sore and useless as if they’d lost the ability to do their job. The air that managed to get through wasn’t nearly enough.

Trask leaned even closer. He whispered, breath tickling Clay’s ear. “Even if it were true, if Jason were still around, well, the way I see it…it’s his home after all, ain’t it?”

Clay's eyes widened, staring at him. Trask grabbed the back of Clay’s head and forced him down. The water covered Clay’s mouth, rushing into his nose and flooding his sinuses. He tried to hit Trask, pushed him away. He had to fight. Had to go after Jason. Had to get Whitney, had to get back to Tom. He’d left him in the dark, alone. Trapped.

He swallowed, water rushing into his stomach. He couldn’t make his body obey. Breathed in, starving for oxygen. Swallowed more water.

Lund pulled him out.

“I didn’t want to come the last time you called for help, back at the lake house,” Lund said, his face twisted with anger and maybe a sliver of horror, self-revulsion at what he was doing. Or maybe not. “I wasn’t going to come. Bracke did and he’s dead. There’s no one to help you now. As long as you’re here, people keep dying.”

“If he’s a monster, what are you?” Clay tried to say. He opened his mouth and puked out water. Couldn’t talk without air. He wasn't sure anymore who the monsters were. Jason, Tom. The town.

Lund pushed him underwater again.

He wasn’t going to try to breathe. He wasn’t. His lungs hurt. It hurt. His eyes were open. Water pressed cool against them, greenish, particles floating before him.

 _Don’t breathe. No air no air no air._ His chest was heavy. Black spots gathered, more of them every second,  green water fading behind the darkness.

He wanted to see Tom. Remembered his face, what he looked like trying to tamp down all his feelings. As if Clay would laugh in the face of them, or maybe as if he had to keep them from Clay because they were something that might hurt him. Hurt them both.

There was a note in Clay's rented room. Just in case. They’d blame him for everything that happened. For his sister and everyone else they could pin on him. Didn’t matter. They’d find Tom and get him out. Or Harry, maybe.

 _I hope it’s Harry_ , he thought, just before everything went black.

 

 


End file.
